Assassin
by illuminatachime
Summary: Pre-Avengers fic. One-shot where Natasha and Clint keep meeting up - but is it random, or planned? Will they grow closer, against all reason? Based on the song "Assassin" by John Mayer listen to it .


His hands gripped the steering wheel and the headlights of the vehicle he was driving – for once, it wasn't stolen – cut like razors through the dark air of the night. He felt like he was moving in slow motion; his eyelids were heavy and his vision was blurry, but it was simply fatigue. Not something more deadly, like, poison.

Narcissists and terrorists colored the inside of his mind, flashing like strobe lights on the dance floor he'd just abandoned. No, he wasn't a dancer, but he could be, if it was needed. He wasn't a party boy, but he could party if asked. He was a righteous villain, a criminal hired by the law. An overlooked killer, an unannounced predator.

And tonight, he'd killed prey.

His jobs always took place in the dead of night; always took place at the moment he became undeniably invincible. There wasn't a rush anymore, just cold, hard skill – loneliness filed down to a simple, unquenchable hunger for revenge.

There was a chink in his armor, a flaw in the plan; a missing link in the long chain of blood and danger in which he continually clothed himself in. It wasn't just a decision anymore, it was a demand.

With tires rolling soundlessly across the pavement, he was on autopilot, traveling to his temporary home. His hands gripped the steering wheel and he held onto it like it was a buoy in the middle of the large ocean that was the space between his mercy and his intolerance; his conscience and his censure.

His work was rough and his tracks were hard to cover, but he managed to paint over them with a blood-stained brush; the gun that was his security, the arrows that were his protection.

The dark, midnight blue vehicle that he drove rolled wearily past the gate to some fancy hotel, one he couldn't remember the name of. They were all the same, mixed into one because he stayed in them constantly.

He couldn't even remember if he had a home to go back to, a family, a normal job. All he had was several fake identification cards, each in a separate wallet, the clothes on his back and the ones he needed to survive his jobs, and a lifetime of fake smiles, fake houses, fake careers.

Fake relatives that were now, more or less, static; the only familiar faces he saw on a regular basis were his so-called coworkers, so why not call them family? They shared the same blood, but it did not run through their veins, no, it flowed over their hands from the still-beating hearts of people they had almost gotten close to, people they had planned to kill from the start.

The yellow lights clicked off, and his mind clicked back to reality. Sharp, alert, wary, unafraid; it was his custom, his belief, his pride, his longing. It was the hand that scratched the place on his back that was just out of reach.

He entered his red-walled, one-bed, carpeted room with a television and undid his tie, checking the bathroom, the drapes, the vents, the closet, and even the bed for intruders. Finding none, he removed his shoes and opened his laptop, for this privacy was short-lived and not his to enjoy.

Two words appeared on the screen after he logged in, then logged in again, then typed some passcodes and gave the electronic voice recognition system his codename. They were the words that forever hung off the tip of his tongue, or haunted the back of his head.

It was her.

* * *

She sat back in her seat, staring at the word displayed shamelessly, blatantly across the screen of her cell phone. It'd been a quiet night, and she'd had nothing to do, but that didn't stop her from keeping busy.

She'd walked all over the city tonight, sniffing out hideouts and walking down all the wrong alleys. It was a way to put off the boredom, fighting on the cold asphalt. It was a way to amuse herself and she so rarely got _that._

Her favorite part, though, was the looks that each of her almost-victims gave at two key parts in their very short relationships – one: the surprise that overtook their expressions when they realized she wasn't some helpless damsel in distress, and two: the defeat that crossed their faces as they fell, beaten and bloody, to her feet.

It was a careful practice, though. She had to make sure to stay away from people who might have heard of her – no one could know she was in the city, in any city. No gangbangers, no thugs, no mobsters, and definitely _not_ the child of some crime boss.

Reaping justice and lawlessness depending on the day, she walked the streets at night and always kept to herself. It was more of a disease than a curse, but it was one that she had learned to deal with.

She bit hard when she could, when it was necessary; her kiss was that of Death. She was an avenging angel, the devil's advocate, and her only loyalty was to herself. The only person she would ever belong to was herself, and the only mind she would ever trust was her own.

Breeding sorrow and misfortune, she left only shadows and dust in her footsteps. She listened not to repentance, nor to appeals; was vengeful only in her instinct for survival. Her mind was in the space between black and white; indignantly grey but still so colorful.

She sat back in the red velvet-upholstered loveseat and stared at her phone, her connection to normalcy. This word, this name, this person…it was the only undeterminable, nonnegotiable thing she'd ever encountered; the only tiebreaker in her static life.

Pain spiked up in the back of her head and she shut her eyes, blocking out the overly-bright screen in the dimness of her room. Where she was masterful in the art of slinking around any pursuer, he was adept at remaining on her trail, and currently, he was stepping on her heels.

One, four, twelve, seven, two can play at that game. She shut the screen off with a twitch of her thumb and moved to the bed. It was a large bed, luxurious, like the hotel she would inhabit for three days tops.

She counted the seconds, minutes, hours that passed before she slept in three different languages – Russian, first and foremost, then English, and then French. Some nights, when she didn't sleep at all, she found herself counting in more languages, speaking with different accents, but quietly, so not even she could hear herself.

Under the blankets, her legs writhed up and down, showcasing all her innermost discomfort. She wondered when she'd be seeing him – how many seconds, minutes, hours would he take? How many bodies would they both line up until their paths crossed yet again, until their eyes met across a dark room? Each time their bodies met in a fateful need to attack something, something that wasn't soft or merciful, something that wouldn't give in, but instead, fight back.

She lay, paralyzed but not petrified, under the too-heavy sheets, gazing up at the map of a ceiling that suddenly seemed so close to her face. She studied its terrain, its lines, angles, and ranges. She memorized it, forced herself to forget it, then memorized it again.

Sleep finally came, and with that, morning. She slipped out of the room and into the familiarity of the city crowds like she might don a shoe. She searched for familiarity in every stranger, waiting for him to appear and then disappear. Wanting to get the jump on him, she smirked at the idea of watching terror and recognition strike his oh-so-somber face as she then coalesced back into the mob of occidental aliens.

A goddess, a serpent, she looked into the eyes of everyone she passed, but none were the eyes she knew but did not know, could recognize but not repel. Her red hair flew around her head as the wind picked up, and it colored a solemn crimson against the dusty blue of the sky, which was heating up with the approaching dawn.

His eyes bore truth and when she was trapped under their iron gaze, she was awakened. She saw everything more clearly, and for mere moments her impenetrable mind was penetrated; not by his but by the genuine longing for something else. His eyes begot a different lifestyle – one that she unwillingly craved.

Her coat was suede and brown like wet sand, shielding her from the captured eye – attract no attention, but don't be obscure. Like her entire being, the things she wore and did were ambiguous – they carried double meanings, had landmines buried below the surface; the naked, untrained eye could only see so far, learn so much.

And it was the trained eyes, the suspecting eyes that locked on her from about ten yards away, just as her eyes came across him. She was smooth like butter, like cream, and didn't flinch, didn't show any sign of detection, just moved her eyes in a steady motion and kept on walking, walking, right by him, right past him, and he played that game too.

A bitter delight rose within her, and she allowed her face to move into a wry expression, coy, because she had him. She knew that he knew where she was headed before he even turned, fifty-three paces behind, to follow her.

It was him.

* * *

Her hair was fire in the light of the dawn; the sun woke from a long night of rest and greeted each individual strand kindly. The image – her silhouette against the dawning sky and the backdrop of buildings, cars, and people – burned into his mind, awarding him with a fresh kind of diligence.

He stalked her, stirring the ever-brewing pot of curiosity in his head, as she turned swiftly onto a less-crowded street and then again down a dark alley. He got in behind her, still a ways back, frowning with concentration.

She stopped. He stopped. It felt like a silent play, a film noir movie that starred only them; her as the bandit, the wrongdoer, and him as the copper, the do-gooder. Where fiction met reality, the line was blurred, and she spoke the scripted line: "Here to kill me, sweetheart?"

Her voice was unexpectedly low, husky and slow like honey. If they weren't who they were, he would've called that voice careless. Inviting. Instead, he recited his own well-rehearsed line.

"I'm here to work things out, darling." He smirked when he said it, shrugging his shoulders and grounding himself for what would happen next.

"Good," she replied. "Because I'm in need of a fair fight. I have my motives as well." She turned, sudden as were all her actions, and faced him. "So, tell me. Why do we greet each other like old friends?"

He shifted himself into a more conversational position, mirroring her. "Well, we're not exactly strangers."

"Oh?" One masterfully shaped eyebrow lifted. She crossed her arms and he tensed; she was relaxing, which meant there would be a fight soon. With her, there was always some way an opponent was thrown off guard, and today, like most days, it was her calm position.

"Oh," he repeated, with a little grumble in his throat. _I can call that bluff,_ he thought, leaning casually against the nearest wall. The cold bricks cooled his deltoid through his jacket, and she smiled too sweetly to be sincere.

They stood like that for what seemed like ages, staring each other down across some ten feet of space. Her eyes were narrow, like a cat's, peering through the darkness at the supposed mouse. But he was no mouse. He'd more than proven it to her time and time again, but it didn't mean that he had beaten her.

A draw, a tie. They were each a deadly match, but nothing ever came of the days when they broke each other's bones with their own, shooting and knifing and kicking and grunting. It always ended in dissatisfaction; the annoying notion that they were not the best.

If he knew his equal, he knew his death. The person who could stand against him and live would bring him to an end, and he knew exactly who that person was.

It was her.

* * *

"Did you wait for me?" she asked, unable to resist. He blinked at her, not comprehending her question at first, but slowly came to understand.

"I don't know," he said, and she was surprised that a liar like him, a liar like herself, could be honest to an almost-stranger.

The sun was rising and it shone in the alley, illuminating the morning mist on the brick walls on either side of them. She squinted a little, musing about how the glimmering drops of dew surrounded him, making him seem angelic.

_You're not an angel_, she thought. _You're a mercenary. _

She watched his face work, blank but hardened. His eyes were sunken-in, a sign of sleepless nights and endless days. His brow was furrowed, like he was constantly puzzling. His lips were pursed, narrow, probably from too many disappointments, too many unspeakable deeds.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

Lie, lie, lie, her brain screamed, but her pride told her to prove – to herself more than him – that she could be honest, too. So, she said, "I don't know."

The sunlight stung her retinas, and she watched as his face shifted into a satisfied smirk. It wasn't unkind; just knowing.

He turned, then. He left the alleyway, stalking out onto the street, and she gawked for half a second before regaining her calm. He had left as the sun came all the way up, burning brightly and eating at the edges of his slender figure.

He had turned his back on her, on _her,_ the one person who always walked away from a fight with him. She was the most dangerous woman in the world, and he had shown his unguarded back to her like she was some sniveling little schoolgirl.

Outrage filled her veins and boiled her blood, singing a song that sounded too much like a lullaby whose words she could almost remember. She shook her head, clearing it, and scowled deeply into the morning light. She was supposed to remain grey at all times. She was supposed to be detached emotionally. And if there was anything that compromised that detachment…

It was him.

* * *

His back twitched up, shoulders hunched, like an animal preparing for a fight. He waited for her to pounce on him, for her to stick a bullet into his head. But the farther away he got, the more he realized she wasn't coming after him.

_Stupid, moronic bastard_, he called himself. _Don't ever do that again. She could've killed you._

But what had stopped her? What had caused her to resist his provocation? There he'd been, practically bearing his back for the beating, and she hadn't taken the bait. He couldn't tell if he was disappointed or relieved.

At any rate, he needed to disappear, and fast. They were of equal ability, so that meant he could cover his tracks as easily as she could; to each other, they were untraceable.

Uniting himself with the crowd once more, he regained obscurity; not hiding from, but leaving behind all of her animosity that was surely pulsing in his general direction. His phone buzzed and an order came, one of which he had to carry out quickly.

He returned to his hotel room and the drapes were open; he'd pulled them open that morning, after rising from yet another restless night. The sun was still burning on, shedding its hellish light over the red walls, momentarily blinding him.

Collecting his things, he gave the room one last once-over and then headed out, turning up the collar on his jacket. The weather was turning nasty; clouds were beginning to gather, darkening and rolling until finally, a sprinkling rain started up.

Squinting against the pattering drops of water, he stealthily made his way to a rich people's neighborhood, walking until he found a certain avenue, and then a certain address. He could pull this one off while still wearing his duffel bag – it carried all his necessities and was actually quite weightless – but he had to make sure they were absolutely alone.

Making sure to keep out of sight of any possible onlooker from the nearby miniature-mansions, he deftly moved through the garden around the other side of the house, finding the back door unlocked. He checked his blind spots, then moved inside, quiet as a cat, and glanced around. Silently searching throughout the first floor of the house, he found no one and decided to head up the stairs.

It was the upstairs home office that called to him, so he pressed himself against the wall, slowing his breathing and focusing on what he heard. It sounded like there was little to no movement on the other side of the wall. Edging closer to the doorway, he noticed something peculiar: a shoe.

Frowning, he bent down, trying to get a better look into the room, and was shocked – _shocked, _a rarity for him – to see that the man, the target, was lying on the floor. Confusion flooded through him as he realized the man was dead – had they sent another agent to do the job for him? Why wasn't he notified? Then he looked up, and he almost couldn't believe his eyes.

It was her.

* * *

She swiveled in the rich man's swivel chair, once again pretending to drop all security; inviting him to take a shot.

"Same job?" she asked, although it was more of a statement, twiddling a pen in her gloved hands. She had lost all her amusement from earlier in the day, but her expression was guarded as ever.

Smirking slightly at his blankly awkward face, she dropped the writing utensil and flicked a knife out of her sleeve, toying with it in the same manner as she had the pen. She blinked innocently at that damned solemn face, intrigued by how well his façade was maintained.

Feigning disinterest in him, she ran her finger along the sharp edge of the small, dexterous blade, looking down at it through slanted eyes. She crossed and uncrossed her legs, then gave a huff of faux boredom.

"Tell me," she said to him for the second time that day. "Tell me why we keep running into each other."

"You know why," he said a little too quickly. His face hardened and her eyes sharpened with a new bit of information. Was he touchy on this subject? She wondered why. _Maybe it's because I'm an obstacle he can't get around._ Her expression became slightly bitter as she realized the opposite was also true.

"I want to hear you say it," she said, repeating another of their scripted lines. "I mean, doesn't this get old?" She abruptly pushed off of the chair, standing with her chin raised valiantly, and sashayed towards him, until she was mere inches away. "I know you want to _kill_ me," she whispered, breath dancing across his neck and jaw.

"And vice versa," he muttered in return. Smiling coyly, she leaned back and stared into his eyes, and for a moment it was just the two of them, in some other, grey dimension. There was no body lying on the floor next to them, no right and no wrong; no good and no evil. Just the two of them, and what they were.

Killers.

"I said I want to hear you say it, Agent. Don't make me tell you again," she warned, dancing backwards to lean against the desk. Nudging the dead man's head with her heeled foot, she shrugged indifferently and looked up.

Her eyes cut into him like the knife she had stuffed back up her sleeve, like an extra limb that was utterly cautionary; they both knew she didn't need it to carry out this kind of job. He cocked his head to the left like a bird, staring at her with an inscrutable expression on his face.

"I could do it," he stated.

"So could I," she said, once again bored. She gave a magnificent roll of her green eyes and focused her attention on a lamp near the wall. "Are you going to or not?"

Her voice was almost pouty.

Instead of answering her question, he stepped closer to her, skirting around the edges of the unfortunate businessman, playing her game, dancing her tango. He treated her warily; stepping just out of immediate reach, and then, decidedly, into it – she could get the first shot either way, he figured.

"You waited for me," he said, frowning but not confused. It was beginning to be his static expression: the hard, merciless, distant knotting of the eyebrows. "Why?"

"Why not?" she countered. "I supposed I could rub it in a little more than I already would've. I took your prey. Aren't you ashamed of yourself?"

"You act like you're better than me."

"You think I'm not?" An eyebrow arched.

"I _know_ you're not."

"Then why is that so hard to prove?" She smirked.

"I could ask you the same thing," he murmured. "But it wouldn't go anywhere. None of this ever goes anywhere."

"Do you _want_ it to go somewhere? Because if you do, just say the word and I'll finish you right now."

"I'd have to stay still," he warned, sighing a little. "But I won't, because I want to die in a fair fight. And that's not something I can find with you."

"So what do you propose we do about that? I can't exactly get a restraining order on you." The wry smile was back.

"Nor I you, but that would be pointless. We don't know where we'll see each other next. Take today for an example."

"I don't quite agree with that," she said, turning away. "I had a distinct feeling this morning, and last night, I suppose. Before I got that annoying little message that told me my instincts were true. I felt your presence in the city. And I think you felt mine."

"I can't deny that," he said simply. "If there's one thing in my world that's ambiguous and random…" he trailed off, knowing she could finish that sentence on her own. And she did.

_It's you._

* * *

A level stare here and there, with quick glances in between; the assassins agreed upon a temporary truce: _just let me get out of the house without having to hit you._ Her bullets and his arrows were both for long-distance outbursts, and they tended to stick with hand-to-hand for close combat.

Of course, that didn't mean they put away their weapons. Brazenly wearing his arrows and bow on his back, latching at the grip of the bow to the canister that held the flying shafts, he walked along beside her, down the hallway and then the stairs.

She wore her guns in holsters at her hips, and he could hear the leather of those holsters rubbing against the leather of her suit, and it wasn't irritating, just noticeable to his trained ears.

They found the back door and swiftly exited the property; it was getting dark and it was raining, too; they were wearing enough black that they'd look like just another duo walking down the street. They had almost made it past the nearest house when suddenly, a large SUV rolled up, and out popped four giant men – all carrying guns.

The men spotted the other assassins quickly, noticing the weapons that she and he both carried; each member of the quartet made the same threatening face.

Resting a hand on her holster, she turned away from the decided opponents to glance at him and said, "Uh oh. Third party." They shared a look, and then he sighed gruffly.

"Great," he muttered, scowling and reaching for the bow on his back.

She twirled her twin guns into her hands. "Sweetie, are we really about to team up for this?"

"Looks like it, toots."

With that, they opened fire, and the thugs opened fire on _them_, and it was a massive firefight. They dodged blows when they got too close to the enemy and ducked away from bullets.

Eventually, there were four bodies on the ground and none of them were red-headed females or carried a bow and arrows. She brushed her hands together as if they were dirty and muttered, _"Amateurs."_

He snorted briefly as she put a bullet in the driver of the SUV's head – he was unarmed and petrified, but would probably talk to whoever he worked for later, and that was an avoidable problem.

"Let's get out of here; I'm sure all of the _wealthy_ people who are all hiding in their _wealthy_ underground bunkers in this _wealthy_ neighborhood are all dialing the police," she suggested, and they took off across the night-bitten asphalt, feet tapping along with the pitter-patter of the rain.

Stopping under a streetlight some five blocks away, they bent over with their hands on their knees; out of breath but still snickering like they'd just pulled a prank.

"I haven't done that in a very long time," she said as soon as her breath had stopped hitching in her throat.

He nodded his agreement. "That was actually fun. I just had fun. I can't believe just had fun."

"Me either," she laughed, a low, dry chuckle.

Then, they both seemed to realize just who they were talking to and stiffened, straightening up and staring keenly at one another. She frowned and turned away, and he watched as she began to walk down the sidewalk.

"You're not so bad," she said, like one might say they'd sinned in a confessional. Her voice wasn't harsh, but it _was_ unforgiving. He smirked.

"You're not that bad, either," he said, falling into step beside her. "But this doesn't make us friends."

"I have no friends."

"Neither do I."

"You're not my friend," she snapped.

"You're not mine." Laid-back, not argumentative at all.

"I'm not going to use you as an asset again," she said haughtily.

"That was not fun."

"You're mocking me," she accused, words hissing through her teeth.

"You mad? Sorry," he said unapologetically.

She ignored his chortling. "Why are you following me?"

"My hotel's this way. Don't flatter yourself."

"Really? I hope we're not lodging in the same place. I won't get any sleep."

"Don't flatter me; you wouldn't get any sleep anyway," he said matter-of-factly.

"You have that problem too?" she asked, turning to look at him. He was gazing upward, but she couldn't tell if his eyes were on the stars or the streetlamps.

"I guess so," he admitted after a moment. Shrugging, he reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out his cell phone. Tilting it away from her, he messaged his boss and said that things had gotten a little messy.

_Might need cleanup; uncertain right now because of gunfire_. Deciding against alerting his agency to the presence the woman next to him, he tapped in one last line: _Second party showed up – someone else had a hit on this guy. _

Pressing _send_, he clicked the screen of his phone off and shoved it back in his pocket, noticing that she was also texting someone. Feeling that he needn't worry about that (he figured aiding her in escaping several bullet wounds tonight would earn him a get-out-of-jail-free card), he let it go and waited for her to speak.

She didn't say anything for a while, and then she did, but it was in Russian and he didn't understand. He knew a few words here and there, words that would help him survive when he was on jobs in that particular country, but that was it.

Suddenly, she turned to him, cropped red hair flipping; it was a strange yellowish color under the orange glow of the streetlights. "Quid pro quo," she requested.

"Quid pro quo?" he said, confused.

"Answer for an answer."

"I know _that,"_ he grumbled. "Why?"

"Why not?" Her eyebrows shot up, challenging him.

"Fine," he said, hating that he was coerced into this by just the eyebrows of a master assassin; his only equal fight.

"Okay. What's your name?" she asked.

"You know my name. Don't pretend that you don't."

"I do. I just want to hear you say it," she admitted, unblinking.

"You want to hear me say a lot of things," he said, and his mind made a connection to that sentence that made him blush a little. He looked away, shielding his colored cheeks from her, and thankfully, she didn't notice. "This is quid pro quo, not Twenty Questions."

"Fine," she said, but wasn't fazed. "Why do you carry a bow and arrow?"

"The same reason you carry those guns," he answered, gesturing to her hip holsters. "Weapon of choice."

"Where did you learn your adept archery skills?" she asked, putting emphasis on the last few words and smiling a little.

"Hey. Quid pro quo. My turn," he chastised. "Do you dye your hair?"

"Of all the existential questions, you ask about my hair?" She snorted.

"Do you dye your hair?" he repeated.

"No," she said. "I'm a natural redhead. Why? Is it a fetish of yours?" she teased.

"No," he said. "Also, that counts as a question, therefore: Why are you in this city? There haven't been any dead bodies lying around, save for the one tonight and mine from last night."

"Oh dear, do I leave a trail of decaying corpses everywhere I go?" She raised a hand to her cheek, feigning disdain. "But that would count as a question if you answered it, so I'll just cut you off right now." She smirked. "I came here because I wanted to. No man told me to travel here, and I guess maybe _that's_ why."

"I see," he said, nodding thoughtfully. "Your turn."

"Thank you. What's your brother's name?"

He flinched a little, but she'd expected that. "Barney. Not many people know I had a brother. How'd you know? And yes, that's my question."

"Please. When we first crossed paths, I decided to do homework on you. Found a former FBI agent with your last name who had an uncannily accurate way of always hitting his marks, and he used arrows."

"It sounded like me, eh?"

"Yes. I believed you were that agent until I found later, in the same document, that he had been killed." She looked down. "Also that he wasn't exactly a do-gooder."

"I'm not a do-gooder either," he said.

"I know. But at least you're trying to right the world."

"Are you?"

"Hey," she said, mocking him. "Quid pro quo, Agent."

"Whatever." He gave the same overly-done eye roll that she had earlier. "What's the question?"

"What would you be doing right now, if you hadn't chosen this…career?"

"I don't know. I used to want to help troubled teens."

"Troubled teens," she repeated, giggling.

"I had a soft spot for people who grew up like me and Barney. It's gone now," he said tightly. He looked away again, stopping for a moment as they came to an intersection. The red hand turned into a white figure whose legs were bent like it was walking, and they crossed the street.

"We must look odd," he said absent-mindedly. "You're all in leather and I've got a bow. Anyways. What'd you say back there?"

"Back where?"

"You said something in Russian. What was it?"

"Oh." She paused for a moment, brow furrowing in memory, and then told him. "I said _Eto ne khorosho. _It means 'this isn't good.' I don't think I need to explain that."

"You don't," he agreed. "But you don't need to worry, either. We'll probably wind up firing at each other soon enough. I think maybe even next week."

She elbowed him, instantly uncomfortable at the close gesture. Clearing her throat, she asked, "Is it true that you have excellent vision? Above-average?"

"You know it is," he told her.

"Read that sign," she said, nodding to a darkened sign about a block ahead.

"_Paul's Automotive Repair Shop._ Happy?"

"No."

He grumbled. "Me neither. Why don't you have a concrete employer?"

"I'm my own woman," she said, turning towards him with an intense glare. "If I have to wear wigs and change my name and fly illegally across the ocean with fake passports, I might as well keep my freedom as long as I can."

"That's a very good answer."

"Thank you. Why do you have a concrete employer?" They turned left onto a busier street, and had to raise their voices to hear over the noisy traffic.

"Maybe I craved a cage." He shrugged.

"Hawks don't belong in cages," she argued.

"Spiders don't use fake IDs to get into countries."

"Touché."

"Can I take a double for a double?" she asked.

"Sure."

They crossed a gravel driveway, feet scraping gravel against the pavement that was somehow heard over the roar of the cars and trucks passing by. They made it across another intersection and the rain started up again (had it ever left?), causing them to shiver.

"Why do you crave a cage?" she said after a while, looking sideways at him. He gave his usual shrug and looked away – a defense mechanism, she realized; whenever someone got too close to the person he was in private versus the assassin he was to the public, he would shift around and look into the distance, pretending he didn't know the answer, or that he didn't care.

"I guess it's because I'm indecisive. Unless it's a very personal decision, I let others make the call, because I always end up doing something I shouldn't. I guess it's easier than rendezvousing around and taking jobs from random people. I prefer someone I can trust," he said, his voice clear but low.

"Is that a jab at me?"

"Probably." Rain drenched their hair and they looked like homeless people; felt like retired lab rats.

"Sorry I'm such a horror to you. Your turn." She glanced at him through narrowed eyes, noticing the exhausted hunch of his shoulders, but saying nothing.

"How long have you been doing this?" He gestured to nothing in particular.

"A long time. I was trained, I guess. My parents died in a fire, and I was taken in by a wonderful man, but also a program called the Black Widow Ops. I'd rather not get into that, if you don't mind."

"I respect that. So you've been doing this since you were young? That's rough," he said, but bore no sympathetic tones; he knew she wouldn't appreciate it.

Instead, she laughed. "Tell me about it. What's your next question?"

He sighed, sticking his hands in the pockets of his jacket. His fingers were going numb in the cold night, and he wished he'd packed actual gloves – not the fingerless ones he wore – like she had.

"I think I'll make it sappy. I haven't had the pleasure of witnessing you feel awkward."

"Hmm. I regret bargaining for a double."

"Too late."

"Do your worst."

"I shall," he said, teasing her. "So, tell me. What's the _real_ reason you haven't killed me yet? I mean, let's be honest, you could do it."

"I told you earlier that I could, and I stand by that," she said, looking away. "This is definitely the _last_ question."

"If you're feeling embarrassed, you don't have to answer," he said mockingly, brandishing an impish grin; she could see, though, in his eyes, that he was really curious.

"That's alright. I guess I can indulge you."

"I'm waiting. You're my next assignment, you know that?"

She sighed. "I figured as much. But that won't change anything." She paused for a moment, as if searching for words, and then began the answer to his question. "I suppose it's because of all the usual reasons. You know. _I saw myself in you_, or _you were lost; _something like that."

"But that's not quite true, is it?" He bent his head forward, bettering his view of her face.

She smiled politely, giving a small shake of her head. Her damp, red curls bounced and hit her cheeks; water droplets ran from them down her neck and disappeared across her leather suit. "No," she returned. "It's not."

The hotel was in sight now; whether they felt like it or not, they were going to end up sleeping in the same building. Each mused, mentally, that they would request rooms on opposite ends of the building; one on the ground floor and one on the top floor; as far from each other that was possible, without leaving the hotel.

He looked at her and she looked up at the stars; eyes going glassy. "It's because you surprised me. You caught me off guard, that first time. I was so used to beating everyone and walking away virtually unharmed on a good day; with a bullet in my leg or a deep cut in my stomach on a bad day. I didn't expect to 'meet my match,' you could say."

Nodding, he said nothing, knowing that she would go on when she felt like it.

"I guess I was waiting for you to get better and defeat me," she said after a minute or so had passed. "I guess I thought that if I couldn't beat you, that you might beat me, and that would be that."

"But you held back on me," he argued, frowning a little. "I know you did."

"I think I knew I did, too. But…not that_ first time_." She squinted, like she could barely believe herself. "I wanted you to defeat me. I know what it's like to be the underdog. I know what it's like to have no one rooting for you; trust me, when you're a killer of both kinds, on both sides of the law, when you do both favors and business, people want you _dead._

"No one wants me to live, and I understand why. I guess, in a way, I _did_ see myself in you – you were that same type of underdog. I thought I could finish you off, and look what that turned into," she said, gesturing between them. "_This._ So I took a chance and rooted for you. But you still haven't defeated me."

"I don't want to," he said suddenly. He glared at her and it wasn't unkind, just serious. He said it again, and her eyes widened in confusion. "Don't you know that I look forward to seeing you? It gives me something to live for," he said jokingly, although his words were honest.

Honesty – what was with the abundance of it today?

She laughed, shaking her head in mild disbelief. He glanced at her, his piercing eyes questioning, and she copied his trademark shrug.

"One person in all the world who I can't defeat," she murmured, looking down and away. "There's one single person who I can't defeat. And the only reason I can't _end_ that person – the only reason I can't leave them behind _for good –_ is because I don't want to. It's as simple as that. Because I don't want to. Because I want to see that person _live._"

He stared at her, ignoring the fact that she was pointedly looking away, studying the cracks between the squares of sidewalk cement like he was studying her profile. Memories, like acid, dropped between them; countless cities, countless wounds. How many times had they bloodied their knuckles and mouths, beating each other raw, just to walk away?

She continued. "I was rooting for that person, you know. I still am. I think they compromised me…I think they made me enjoy my life a little more than before. I notice color. I hear _sound – _not just the normal hither-and-tither static, but _sound. _I was going through the motions, and _that_ _person_ breathed _life_ into me…do you know who it was?" she asked, managing to smile both fondly and secretively at the same time.

"Who?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. His eyes were still wide with disbelief, and she told him anyway.

"It was _you._"

* * *

Without meaning to, he stopped, and she stopped too, politely waiting for him. Confusion flickered across her face, dancing and then disappearing like a flame blown out.

Without meaning to, he reached for her, and her arms flew up defensively, but realized harm wasn't his intention. He leaned towards her and cupped her face in his hands, all in a second, and brought his lips to hers.

She made a small noise of protest, but soon gave in to her emotions; after so _long,_ it felt so _right._ She felt as if she had _missed _this – but when had it ever happened? Obviously, the man she was embracing was different than any other she'd ever known. She was soon lost in the kiss, just as much as he was, and a little while later, she realized why he was different: he was _hers._

Transmissions of passion moved between them, through lips and teeth, dancing across tongues and heating their throats, steadily traveling downward, through their arms to the palms of their hands, returning the feeling to their fingers; through their chests to their lungs, filling their ribcages with the smoke of longing.

His fingers tangled in her hair, kneading gently into the soft flesh at the nape of her neck. They were close enough to kill, but the blossoming trust that had been born – somewhere between now and this morning, when he'd turned away from her and walked away – grew vines, tying them to each other; necessary chains, with a couple bent and missing links, but it was good enough for them.

Their bones reverberated with each other's warmth, and, suspended above reality by a tiny but strong thread, they stood as seconds, minutes passed; the heat did not go away. It did not dissipate into the now-pouring rain. It did not sink into the stone beneath their feet.

They were solitary dark stars; poignant metaphors of the fragility of mortality. It was forever winter for them, winter and blood; blood and dark, starry nights. The pads of their fingers dug into each other's skin along with their nails, tearing and searching, making sure that the wondrous, beautiful, strange creature that they held in their arms was real.

It was you.

It was _you. _

_It was you._

* * *

His hands gripped her shoulders, neck, jaw. He kissed her without meaning, without passion, without love, and then he kissed her with all the meaning in the world, all the passion, and a newfound love. He kissed her like it was his first kiss and her last kiss; chaste but sensual all at once. He loved her without meaning to, without compassion for his own hopelessly lost soul; without love for himself, only for _her._

They moved together, breathed together, danced together; they spoke in tongues and sometimes with their tongues alone, silent, dangerous, like a thousand waves of heat rushing into the ocean, boiling salt; warming water enigmatically.

_You should go._

_So should you._

He couldn't breathe, he was suffocating, but his ribs were expanding like never before; sharp, clear air flowed into him. They knew what they were doing, what this would mean. They flew, out of their minds, feeling everything, burning the landscape of each other's body into their mind.

Somehow, they ended up in a different place, in a different world, in a different state of mind. The sun was beginning to shine, the birds were beginning to chirp, and they were warm, safe, in an unknown bed in an unknown hotel, but that didn't matter, because they had _each other._

Slowly, with butterflies dancing on their eyelids and lazy whispers meant for no one in particular, except maybe the perfect being lying next to them, they awoke with a new kind of gentleness in their hearts; a tenderness sunken deeply into their dewy skin.

She turned away from him, standing, facing the window. He did the same, and, leaning against him, she stared outward, up at the sky, and so did he. Watching the birds; flying with the birds. They gazed, soaring high above in the sky, among the clouds and breeze, grazing the tops of trees whose leaves were swaying in the wind.

He rested his chin on her shoulder and her head moved to rest against his; his arms wrapped around her bare shoulders, shielding her skin from all the harmful daggers of cold wind that might blow in through the window.

They stood there for a while, and he pressed little kisses, little meaningful pecks, all over her hair, her neck, her cheeks, her shoulders, her hands. They leaned on each other and watched the morning make peace with the night, breeding a reverse dusk that was unbearably, heartbreakingly beautiful.

They watched the dawn.

She turned to him and his eyes flicked to hers, and a thousand words passed through that singular lifeline, miles above them, but still between their minds. They didn't have to speak, didn't have to say anything at all, but that didn't stop her from leaning slightly and brushing her lips, so softly, across one of the small but many long-healed scars that peppered his skin.

His eyes closed in content at the feeling of her kiss on his cheek, and she breathed in his scent; it filled her with such serenity that she had to put a voice to the feeling. Glancing back to the world outside, she whispered something, something that would only be important to them; something significant.

"It's such a perfect day."

More hours passed, and their phones buzzed, but they didn't leave their room. He'd had cards in his duffel bag; she played a mean game of poker. And when she'd more or less cheated him out of every single cent he had with him at present – which was quite an amount – she sat back, placing her cards on the table, and gave him a real smile.

He returned that ingenuity, reaching across their game to take her hand, tracing her fingers with his thumb.

"Don't you have a job to do?" she teased, and he knew without question that she was talking about herself. He looked at her – looked at her face, her body, her hair, her eyes, her nails, and her smile, that _smile – _and shook his head.

"I think I'm going to make a different call," he said, his voice low and intense.

For the first time in a long time, he felt truly rested, although he shouldn't – he'd barely gotten any sleep last night. But her greyness had disappeared, also, and was replaced with reds and oranges and blues.

"Careful, your _superiors _might be a little miffed that you've started bringing in strays. It might become a bad habit."

"Natasha, I don't think you could be a bad habit," he said, grinning and raising her hand to his lips. He murmured against her knuckles, "Does that mean you crave a cage, too?"

"No," she said, and her expression could only be described as bittersweet. It was soon replaced with one of elation, of love, and she said, "I just want to have an excuse to be near you, Clint. You know, without killing all your targets and whatnot."

"How sweet of you," he said sarcastically. "Hey, can I tell you something?"

"I'm listening."

"I used to look for this person. I would travel all across the globe, taking all these extreme assignments under the hopes that maybe they would, too. Sometimes I was right, but usually I was wrong, and I didn't see that person as often as I would've liked. But then I started choosing randomly, not planning at all, and I saw that person almost every time I turned around. I grew to love that person, and I want to keep her close to me, because I have never felt more strongly for _anyone _than I do for her…do you know who it is?" he asked, managing to smile both fondly and secretively at the same time.

"Who?" she asked, though she already knew the answer. Her eyes were still wide with disbelief, and he told her anyway.

"It's _you._ It's _always_ been _you."_

_~finis~_


End file.
